Downhill

Downhill

Falling down holes

is my forte,

I can always feel the bottom

but never reach the top.

Quicksand steps are routine

slow on the uptake,

grated dirt roads,

dust on my rose colored lenses.

And there is no hand to hold.

Kicking rocks

in my whiskey glass,

baffled by the way

it went down.

It went down just the same.

She would sit 

on my left

always;

whisper things she wanted

in my bad ear.

I guess I shouldn’t have been so surprised.

It’s just that the ground

is so cold.

Back here

at the bottom.